Hours after the Sept. 11, 2001 attacks, the writer stood in the rubble of the World Trade Center.

He was passing buckets of debris down a line of volunteers and first responders.

A small white object in the gray ash caught his eye.

It was a scuffed, dirty golf ball.

Someone nearby told him not to throw it out.

The writer never learned that person's name.

They both understood what it meant to find something personal in the acres of pulverized concrete and twisted steel.

He set the ball near a mound of shredded metal.

People believed the metal came from the hijacked planes.

In those first chaotic hours, people dug through what became known as "the pile."

They were searching for any sign of life.

Early optimism quickly gave way to despair.

So little was recognizable that finding a torn photo, a paperweight or a shoe felt like a gut punch.

Each object told a story about someone now gone.

The writer was an avid golfer at the time, so the ball hit especially hard.

He imagined it sitting in a jar on a desk with other balls.

Each one was stamped with a corporate logo.

He liked to believe it marked a moment of joy, such as a closed deal or a good shot.

Golf is mostly frustrating, he notes, but it is also about aspiration and friendship.

That is why the ball still resonates 25 years later.